eclipse
by zorrie
Summary: oneshot...i'm bad at summaries. worlds apart yet closer than they could ever have imagined, dustfingerroxane, set during inkheart, 1st person, both dustfinger's and roxane's POV. worth a read, it'll just take a few miutes. thanks!


disclaimer: i don't own ANYONE, i'm just borrowing...temporarily borrowing without permission, i'll let them go eventually. this is a oneshot, but there'll be a little epilogue (;

reviws?

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Falling into a steady rhythm, I lose myself in the work. The small plot of land I have is near barren, and it takes diligence and labor to make a meager living off it. But, surprisingly, I've discovered that I don't mind the work so much as I thought I would. A stray breeze blows a wisp of hair into my face, and I pause only long enough to push it behind my ear.

There once was a time when I'd worn my hair loose, but those days were long ago. I remember well those sweltering summer afternoons in Ombra, singing and dancing barefoot on the square to earn coin for bread. Still, I remember them like a dream, nothing but a bright swirl flitting through my mind. More and more, people came to watch me perform, and with them came the suitors. Of course, they came in vain, but it was still an amusing thing to watch. I smirk at the memory. I'd begun to dance in private halls, for princes and nobles and the rich. Memories are memories, nothing more and nothing less, I remind myself. Still, I want to linger in the past a moment longer. I'd been so fiery and proud all those years ago; a few times even privately scorned those who didn't stand up for themselves. I know now that pride is a luxury, and one some cannot afford. I've learned many things since then.

Although sunrise comes earlier this time of year, daybreak is still hours away. In this part of the country the stars shine brighter than pearls embroidered on velvet, and the sky is deeper than the darkest ebony. I'm usually up before the sun to work the field, Jehan with me, but last night sleep hadn't come easily.

Tilling the soil requires effort, and for a while I think of nothing but the job at hand. In a few hours time, Jehan should be up, and we can start to gather the herbs. In my mind I laid out plans for the day, the steady routine of farm life unfolding. It's easier, I've since learned, to go through the day as though there is only 'now,' to throw yourself into what needs to be done, to work without thinking.

To think requires words, and words are merely perfunctory. A word is a sound with a meaning attached, but meanings change and evolve. To every person, a word may mean a different thing. A word is a noise that attempts to give voice to our mind and our heart, although emotions make no sound. Words never say what you want them to say, and words are given more power than they deserve.

Once upon a time, it seemed, I'd been falling love.

Now I was only falling apart.

When my life fell to pieces I picked them up and moved on.I took what I had and started from there; when I had nothing left I simply started over. There were days I felt myself sinking, when all the blue skies seemed grey, and those days I made a point to push myself even harder. From all the pain and loss I forged myself stronger, so that I could be there for my children when they needed me.

I somehow manage to get through each day, and the days pile up into months and years. But I still haven't gotten anywhere. I still don't know what to do with myself, and there are days I'm not even sure who I am anymore. In what now seems like another life, I thought time could erase everything. I thought the stinging edge of longing and suffering were worn away over years.

They're not.

I've tried every trick in the book, from denial to acceptance, in the hope that I can finally move on with my life.

I still can't do it.

This far from the vaguest sign of people, the night was crisp, the air clean—dustfinger felt he could actually breathe it without choking, polluted as everything was, in this world. How strange, that two places could be so alike and yet so vastly different.

Strange, indeed.

Sinking his head into his hands, dustfinger sighed. In the end, was there anything left to believe in? Reality seemed more fragile than he remembered. Hard to believe he was, apparently, nothing more than a creation of paper and printer's ink, merely the product of an old man's words. Was fate, then, nothing more than a malleable facade to be molded at a whim; a thin illusion veiling the fact that he was completely incapable of influencing his life—at the mercy of a force over which he had no control?

Blissfully unconscious and sound asleep, the boy, farid, was huddled closer to the campfire than could probably be considered safe. Dustfinger let it be; rolling over on his side, he gazed sadly at the fire, studying the leaping tongues of flame. His own mind was preoccupied feeling sorry for itself, and he didn't have the urge to stop it.

For a world so sullied and polluted, the sky was unexpectedly dark and rich. To dustfinger, the stars seemed to be blinking back tears. Rosanna, his younger daughter, would be near farid's age now. How young she'd been when last he saw her. and his eldest, Brianna—she'd be, oh, fifteen? The thought brought a sharp pang of a feeling dustfinger didn't want to know, the wound still raw despite all these years—or perhaps because of it?

Rosanna, Brianna…Roxane. Dustfinger murmured their names tonelessly, absently toying with the flames; he half heartedly tried to stop the rush of memories, but they came anyway, attempting to crush him with sheer bitterness. The knowledge of all he'd lost was a terrible burden to bear, and worse still that Silvertongue had stolen his life without even intending to.

Dustfinger was abruptly brought out of his reverie when the fire singed his finger, and he pulled back, watching the flames crackle merrily. Devouring further the charred carcass of the log, with mirthless glee, and they crackled merrily. Fire was nearly inanimate here, so different in this world than in his own. But already his mind had drifted off.

Roxane…his heart contracted at the thought. Where was she now? Did she still think of him, as he so often thought of her? after all these long years, did she believe him dead—had she moved on? Heart beating faster, dustfinger prayed silently that she'd forgiven him all those times he'd run off, itching to wander, unable to settle down. Gone for weeks, months…leaving her to raise two children on her own. How foolish he'd been, such a selfish fool. Yet Roxane had always waited for him, had always accepted him back when he returned. he'd always brought Brianna presents, souveneirs from far off lands—no substiitie for his absence, he'd known; and so had she. Dustfinger sighed, wearily; he'd been so stupid—he still was—so very, very, stupid. and Brianna would ask him where he went, why he was gone so often—roxane never did, but he saw the same question in her eyes—how could he explain? He couldn't. There was no explanation, because he should have been there…but he wasn't.

The best he could do was promise that he'd always find a way back. _And you will, dustfinger,_ he thought grimly. _No matter what_.

Memories, both sweet and bitter, nourishing him while they ate at him from the inside out. He wanted to badly to just let go, of everything…but every time he lossened his hold, he hung on twice as tight. _damn it, dustfinger, don't you even know what you want? _But he didn't, he didn't even know who he was sometimes.

When everything you need to keep is gone, when all your hope is lost, you move along. Just to get through, just to get by. Dustfinger sincerely doubted there was ever a way to get over. But where did he go now?

So many times he's tried to let go…wouldn't it just be better to leave them in his past, to start over, new? There's no hope for you, dustfinger. You're a man in the wrong world, and there's no going back. No use longing for what you'll never have again. No use trying to be who you were.

You promised you'd always find a way, you always have, you still can. You'll never get back if you don't try, you'll never try hard enough if you don't believe it'll work.

In the end, Dustfinger was nothing but tired. Tired and weary and disillusioned. If only there were an answer to every question, every problem. In this world or his own. But there never were, were there?

I'm only going in circles…

I keep trying to do something with myself, with my life—

I still can't.


End file.
